Midgard Bound
by Cag134
Summary: Loki is sent to Midgard by Odin in an undercover mission—as a high school teacher. Natasha Romanova is an average senior looking forward to the future. Their paths cross, leaving both of them confused. Loki has higher loyalties, and Natasha is just interested in serving her new country. Very AU—pre-Thor (2011). Other Avengers featured later.
1. Midgard Bound

The Asgardian throne room never failed to shine—in all of its grandeur, it could lift up even the saddest of souls, including the soul of yours truly. As I was kneeling before the All-Father, I looked up, and I, for the thousandth time, saw the several golden steps leading up to his throne; they were ornate, and the light rays reflected off them beautifully.

"Son," my father said, just loud enough for the two of us to hear comfortably, "I was looking to talk with you." He was wearing his usual regal outfit sans the helmet, and he motioned for the cessation of my kneeling. I stood up and made eye contact—my two orbs to his one.

"Indeed, father, I suspected as much. I made my way here as soon as I knew. Now, what brings me here, exactly? Of course, I mean no disrespect—"

Interrupting me, Odin said, "Don't worry about it, Loki. Incidentally, I am in need of a favor." At this, my eyebrow raised; seldom did he ever request that from me, and when he did, Thor was usually at my side. I suppose just that one reality was a small example of our already-strained relationship. I was cognizant much jealously and hate coursed through my veins, and thankfully, that cognizance and prudence prevented a lot of bad decisions—still, though, emotional satisfaction was a rarity. That thought, I quickly realized, was of no importance when I considered I was a prince, and a manipulative, intelligent prince at that.

"A favor, father? Must we visit the healer for you so soon?" I asked in jest, to which Odin smiled a small, bittersweet smile.

"Senility is no friend of mine, my son—and actually, yes, I do need a favor, and it's large, all things considered. I need you to, ah, pay a visit to Midgard."

I cocked an eyebrow—Midgard? I wasn't astonished, but I was a bit confused. Midgard, was, well, mundane, boring, and unimportant. The silly Midgardians—humans, I think they called themselves—hadn't really done much, and very few, if any, were important. Nonetheless, I inquired more into the matter. Odin wouldn't have asked me to visit Midgard for a simple visitation.

"Of course, father, I will do whatever you ask of me," I said, internally rolling my eyes, "but I must confess, I am not exactly certain of Midgard's relevance." Odin nodded understandingly.

"I expected that response, and trust me, I would've thought the same thing up until a few days ago. However, recent intelligence has led me to believe otherwise. Simply put, the Midgardians might have a grainy 'photograph'—a permanent etching, to my understanding—of Asgard. Apparently, their technology has progressed enough to the extent that they can see us, however blurrily."

I considered this. Midgard, supposedly, had the capability of discovering Asgard. Knowing their foolish history from my childhood lessons, I was extremely concerned. The vast majority of them, needless to say, could do nothing. However, the few, relatively-powerful entities might pose a problem in the far future. It was better to eliminate the threat of Midgard discovering us as soon as possible, and Odin agreed.

I sighed and rubbed my temples. "So, allow me to guess—are Thor and I to infiltrate any and all human facilities housing these 'photographs', destroying the photographs along with the new technology?"

Odin frowned and replied, "No; in fact, Thor knows not of this, and it needs to stay that way; and in regards to your assumption of infiltration, not exactly, no."

"Father, I am unsure that it would be beneficial to leave him behind, as he's a powerful fighter. But more than that, if I am not to interfere with these 'photographs' nor the technology, what am I to do?"

Odin looked down at me for a moment and then decided to walk down to my level. "This favor—a mission, really—is going to have to be clandestine and covert. What sense does it make to cause a ruckus during a mission in which we're trying to prevent awareness of us? Your brother, as great of a warrior as he is, isn't really cut out for that—he'd agree, and besides, I'll have him do another thing."

After considering my father's logic, I realized he was correct—not that I was incorrect, by any means. With all this sneakiness and intrigue, I presumed, this mission was going to take longer than I had originally thought. There was one thing my father hadn't addressed, though: the actual mission's procedure.

"I suppose you're right," I conceded, "but what of the nature of the mission itself?"

"It will be painstakingly slow," Odin responded, confirming my earlier thoughts. "But there will be an 'easy in', so to speak. Amazingly enough, the researchers, per our spies there"—I was a bit surprised about the presence of Asgardian spies on Midgard, but I remained mum—"only have the intelligence on us in one location—they apparently don't know what they have, so they're not too hasty in doing more research."

"This is all well and good, but how exactly am I to... do this?" I asked after I had processed all the new information. I made sense of it quickly, but Odin's role for me remained unclear.

Odin smirked, but it came off more as a wide smile. "I'd never considered you to be one to teach, but, well, here we are—you're going to be a teacher in Little Creek, Massachusetts for a while."

I seldom, if ever, got headaches, but I could feel my godly temples beginning to pound. I just wanted to come here, harmlessly scheme and manipulate—I'm sadistic—the lesser entities, and now this is on my plate. I couldn't allow my façade of innocence—or what remained of it—to slip, so I nodded nevertheless.

My tired eyes met my father's uncharacteristically-energetic countenance. "Please, elaborate," I asked, mustering all my patience and goodwill into a single imploration.

Odin pulled out an extremely archaic form of documentation—paper—from his side and began to flip through the semi-thick packet.

As he was searching for an answer to my question, I assumed, I asked, "Why is the packet in paper? Surely more contemporary, native methods of storage are better?"

"Well, yes, but you're taking this to Midgard, and you can't take Asgardian technology with you, so here this is," he muttered, and I nodded, and my throbbing only increased. As much as I loved to glean intelligence, I wanted to glean useful intelligence, not Midgardian nonsense. Odin spoke once he had found the relevant page: "Little Creek High School of Little Creek, Massachusetts"—How original!—"is located only a few miles away from the Massachusetts Astronomical and Extraterrestrial Research Center—Loki, that's the facility in which they have all the documents we need."

I comprehended everything he said, but still, the educational aspect of it was illogical. "So why do I need to become a teacher?"

"Well, the facility is watched very carefully, and the US government—the most powerful government on Midgard—seems to have taken a special interest in the facility's research. Like I said earlier, going in swords blazing will be neither smart nor successful. The high school—a school for the older children of Midgard—will be your cover and excuse for being in close proximity to the facility."

Great—I didn't want to do this, but honestly, I knew in the long run it would score me a place closer to Odin. From this, I could not only bond with him, I could also use it to advance my place in all the realms. Aside from that, I did want to do something a bit different, but really, this wasn't what I had in mind. I was an Asgardian prince, not some lowly Midgardian whose job was to teach a bunch of rambunctious teenagers. Hello, throbbing!

"All in all, I am to become a teacher at some school on Midgard as a cover to size up a nearby facility, in which I will eventually infiltrate?"

Odin nodded in confirmation. "Precisely. Now, it's only midday, and I'd like you to leave by tonight. I've already informed Heimdall. However, we're not done here just yet. I still need to sort out a few things with you," he continued.

"Such as?"

"Well, most of it is covered in this packet"—as he said that Odin handed me said packet—"but the more important aspects need to be understood here, like housing. We've already procured an upper-class place of residence for you, and I'm sure you'll like it." Odin winked and continued, "You're also going to be in possession of a false ID and history, so when you first talk to Little Creek's principal, you just need to sweet talk them—I have no worries about the success of that. We've already submitted your application as well, and they've accepted. You just need to be formally interviewed for the job, and you're to start teaching the same day—as rushed as that sounds, keep in mind that from their perspective, you've been preparing for months."

I looked up at him, and for the first time in a while, I felt a small inkling of genuine appreciation. My father could've just sent me on my way, and while I still would've been able to sort everything out, my father's actions only made my godly life easier. "Thank you for all this preparation. Is there anything else I need to know before I go?"

Odin looked at me for a few moments and then clasped my shoulder. "Not anything in particular—but, as usual, take care of yourself. Fellow Asgardians will never be far. Oh, and take this key. It's for your new home. I'll tell Thor of your leaving once he returns. Remember, Loki, you're not stuck there—you can come back whenever necessary, but please, keep it to a minimum. It'd be bad news if the Midgardians saw you."

My only response was a detached nod and a small smile.

* * *

Later that day, after preparing, I had elected to walk down the Rainbow Bridge. Running would've be speedier, undoubtedly, but I wasn't really too keen on leaving Asgard. Midgard, to my understanding, wasn't extremely pitiful—but when compared to Asgard, it fell short in all categories: morals, history, achievements, beauty of the female race, etc.

Small, rocky islands were scattered around me for miles on my left and right. The bridge, true to its strength, held up my godly person like a mighty throne. My hardened, black boots made a quiet 'clap' as they struck the bridge, and my forest-green and sable cape softly fluttered behind my torso.

Heimdall was waiting for me when I entered his observatory.

"Hello," I greeted the guardian. "I am ready—I am to go to Midgard, per my father's wishes."

Heimdall looked at me and nodded respectfully. He and I had never been particularly close—when was I close with anyone?—but we retained cordiality.

"I can send you immediately, if you wish," Heimdall suggested.

"Well," I began, "seeing as there's no reason for me to prolong my inevitable leaving, you should open the Bifrost now," I finished, my words not revealing the annoyance and impatience in my bosom.

Without looking at the other man, I began walking toward the Bifrost, only the off-white packet in hand. Soon, the Bifrost's embrace made itself known, and I was zooming toward Midgard, stars, moons, and other celestial objects leaving my line of sight as soon as they made themselves known.

With no forewarning, the Bifrost was nowhere in sight, and I found myself falling toward a grassy ground only a few meters below. Instinctively, my knees bent down, and I landed gracefully on the yard, only a temporary imprint hinting at my interplanetary travel. I looked up at my surroundings, and while it wasn't as nice as Asgard, it wasn't too unbearable.

Midgard's sky was sapphire and her trees emerald. My new home was just over a hundred feet away, with a smooth, concrete driveway leading up to it. I recognized the three-story building from the packet, over which I had briefly skimmed. According to the documents, it was approximately nine thousand square feet, which was supposedly large for a home on Midgard. Its high, ornate stone walls contrasted nicely with the windows and beams that ran parallel to the ground. It looked oddly picturesque in that moment, as if it was a far-away home on an alien planet, as portrayed in the many books I had read as a young god.

As I approached the door with my key in hand, I noticed a primitive vehicle in the driveway. It was sleek, shiny, and black. It piqued my interest slightly, but I was tired, so for the moment, I ignored it.

I wanted to explore the rest of the home, but considering my exhaustion, I decided to simply sleep for the night. The large, hardwood staircase in the middle of the foyer directed me to my room, which according to my document packet, was the main residence of Midgardians when they slept.

It wasn't difficult to find the largest sleeping chamber—just right of the top of the initial staircase and down the hall. The four-poster mahogany bed looked okay with its red duvet spread atop, but at the moment, I was only concerned with sleep. Traveling the Bifrost screwed with my circadian rhythm—even gods had those. Before I just crashed on my new bed, however, my father had apparently had one of his men place a note on my bed. It read, "Read pages two through three."

I plopped down, and wisely, I heeded what the note said. Those specific pages were relatively dull, but it did inform me I needed to set my 'alarm clock' to awake me at six o'clock sharp. The meeting with the local principal was at half-past seven o'clock, but being new to Midgard, even with my innate cunning, it would've been prudent to give myself some time. The vehicle—a Maserati—was going to be my primary form of travel for the foreseeable future. Thankfully, in theory, I knew how to drive it, as the packet explained the rudimentary aspects of vehicle-driving on page three.

"Well, this is going to go great," I muttered to myself before fiddling with the clock next to my bed. It was a nasty thing, as it contained at least a few dozen buttons, but I got it working relatively soon.

Once that thing was settled, I removed most of my clothing and folded them neatly on a side table. My red duvet soon encompassed my form, providing a rarely found comfort.

* * *

A horrible, ear-eviscerating noise hammered me out of my sleep. I jumped out of bed, my form tightened all over. A semi-familiar scene was before me; then I recalled yesterday's events and slumped back down onto the bed. The perpetual screech of my alarm only served to arouse my ire and annoyance. I got up and put an end to the dreadful noise.

I needed to prepare for the day. As much as I secretly resented Odin for giving me this mission, I was equally looking forward to face something new. I only hoped this mission's novelty didn't fade too fast, as I was sure it would eventually.

My Midgardian outfits were located in the closet. I knew, roughly, what the ideal outfit would look like—again, the packet was extremely helpful. I'd have to store that safely somewhere. It was essentially my guide until I grew familiar with this lesser realm's customs.

The suit I selected looked quite nice on me, I believed. Thor, being the oaf he was, would've made jests ad nauseum about me admiring my newfound, Midgardian fashion sense. I mean, what could I say? The sable suit accented my slim waist and broader shoulders, so of course, I was impressed with myself.

I walked out of my room, documents and key in hand, and down the staircase. Careful to lock the door behind me, I only just realized I hadn't looked around the house yet—no matter. I could do that once I had returned home. With my key in hand, I unlocked my Maserati and hopped in.

It'd be slightly deceitful to claim I wasn't totally not nervous. You see, I'm almost never nervous, and if I am, it's warranted by a real threat—and this is, by no means, a real threat. I ignored my unimportant nerves, however, and began to drive backwards, only in that moment realizing just how sensitive the pedals were.

Like lightning from Thor's palm, I sped down the road, only ever looking down intermittently to check the directions to the school, and I purposefully wore a cold and determined mask.

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this new creation. There's not much to say, but I will be updating soon.


	2. First Day

I arrived at Little Creek just a few minutes past seven o'clock. The school was situated in a somewhat-rural area in the Little Creek suburb. It was off the main road a bit, yet I located it with relative ease. As I was pulling into the space in which Midgardians rest their vehicles, I took a gander at the school itself. It was mid-sized, and it looked to be able to hold around a thousand students. The brick building's square perimeter found itself to be surrounded by a thin forest on three sides, with only the front be exposed to any large amount of open space.

I parked my Maserati in a space closer to the plexiglass entrance with relative ease. I'd never done it before then, but really, any person with even a single iota of common sense could figure out how to park. I only made sure I wasn't outrageously slanted to one side.

As I entered in the warm building—from the canvas of brown, orange, and yellow, it looked to be autumn—I became slightly unsure of myself, though I didn't show it. There was a large common area before me, and a courtyard was beyond that, separated by ceiling-high windows. There was a room to my left labeled 'Administration', so I didn't remain clueless for long.

"Hello," I greeted the secretary with warmness, "I'm here for an interview with Mr. Parkson? I'm Joel Samson." That false name could be found on my ID.

The older woman peered up at me from under her hot-pink spectacles. "Um, yes, he's expecting you. His office is just down the hall behind me and to the left," she said. Once I thanked her, I started to walk past her large, oak desk, but she called out, "Oh! My apologies. I'm Ms. Donna, but you can call me Ellie."

I turned around and donned my signature smile—a little grin that only promised politeness and respect, but its outward appearance, of course, belied my innermost intentions. "No worries, Donna!" I called back out to her. "Thanks!"

With a swish, I made my way down the short hallway. The carpet was a subtle shade of dark blue; its walls were beige with miscellaneous etchings—photographs, I assumed—scattered all about. In accordance with what the secretary had just told me, I made a left, and I found myself facing a small office veiled by white shades. I knocked on the door.

A muffled voice called out, "Come in!"

My right hand pushed the door, and with my Asgardian strength, it swung open. The office inside was a clashing mixture of quaintness and professionality. The portly man—Mr. Parkson—sat at a cluttered desk. Overturned documents and useless paperweights were littered everywhere, but in spite of that, the room still seemed to be organized. Windows allowed natural light to come in, illuminating the entire room.

"Mr. Samson!" greeted Parkson with an enthusiastic smile. He stood up and extended his hand, to which I did nothing—quite odd indeed. My inaction—perhaps I had forgotten a custom—seemed to befuddle the principal momentarily, but within the minute, he had regained his effervescence and energy.

"Hello, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you," I said, sitting down once he had as well.

"It's a mutual feeling, that I can assure you. Now, like I said in my email, this interview is purely formal, as you've already been accepted," he said with a wink, and oddly enough—I swear this to be true—his handlebar mustache twitched simultaneously. Suddenly, the ridiculousness of the entire situation came onto me like an oceanic wave—here I was, in some nondescript high school on Midgard, conversing with a man who had just twitched his ludicrous mustache. I held in my chuckles, too fed up with everything to truly be upset.

"Yes, yes, of course. I am looking forward to enlightening Massachusetts' youth. Astronomy not ever failed to interest me, and hopefully, I can perhaps inspire my students to discover something similar about themselves—but I digress," I said back to the man.

"No, no, I really enjoy it when I hear teachers expressing similar reasons and ideas"—ugh—"but first, as a part of this 'interview,'" cue the wink, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

Needless to say, I wasn't going to answer truthfully; I saw myself charging at enemies of the Crown, turning my own body into a bulwark against barbarity and turpitude—as hypocritical as it may seem for me to duel with wickedness, aside from manipulation, it was what I was best at.

Instead of those notions, I told him, "Well, you know, I intend to keep working here for the foreseeable future. I've also thought of traveling the world more frequently."

"An admirable goal, Mr. Samson," Parkson responded. He then looked down at one of the many documents on his desk, his eyes jumping around, seemingly trying to find something. "Yes, uh, let me just... ah! Here it is: do you expect a raise within the first year?" he asked after a second of searching.

Truthfully, I hadn't really considered that aspect of the job—my packet had just told me the pay was monthly, so I shrugged. "Not really, no. I teach because it's enjoyable; but that said, a raise is always nice."

Parkson looked at me for a second then chuckled, his stomach bouncing around as if it were gelatin. "My, my, you're an unusual one—but I like it!" he exclaimed.

Parkson continued to question me for a few more minutes, but his inquiries were relatively superficial and shallow. They weren't necessarily bad, just not very exciting. I deliberately answered his questions with increasingly-short responses, hoping he'd grow bored of the interview. The autumn avians were fluttering around outside, just past Parkson's windows. I forced myself not to get distracted by the vibrant image they collectively created.

After final exchanges were made, Parkson and I stood up. "It was nice talking," I said with a smile—and this time, it wasn't completely fake. He was still a Midgardian, though, and his inferiority, even if he couldn't control it, showed itself.

He extended his hand again, and this time, I reluctantly extended my own. With a firm grasp and a small smile, I walked out of Parkson's office.

Ms. Donna—Ellie—was still at her desk. I approached her and asked, "Ellie, Mr. Parkson said you had my curriculum for me?"

She looked at me and readjusted her glasses. "Yep! I do. I had the science department hand it to me. They said it should cover the first couple units—ask them if you have any questions."

"Thanks." I reached over and grabbed the folder, in which were the universally taught lessons regarding astronomy. I would just skim it to discover the order by which I had to teach—I knew all the content, undoubtedly.

The school's hallways were different, to put it lightly. The carpeting was identical to the office's, but the walls were composed of dull, metallic boxes, in which many students were storing things as I walked past.

The young Midgardians—the students, I presumed—large in number. They had all sorts of ridiculous fashion choices on themselves; a minority of them had even altered the color of their hair into some sort of obnoxious hue—hot pink, neon green, etc. Even though I was aware that, to them, I was nothing more than some new adult, I was still the God of Mischief. The dismissive way by which they shoved into me in the hallway was intolerable. Had I been treated with such insolence on Asgard, heads would've rolled and innards would've splattered. Yet, I forced my expression to retain its normalcy and calmness—I needed to, for I suspected this disrespectful attack on my person would not be the last. My anger boiled.

The ocean of students was perpetual and irksome, and that was only heightened by the subjects of their stupid conversations—lovers, vehicles, illicit substances, and so on and so forth. I don't believe I heard anything of merit. I realized I was closing in on my classroom—which was designated to be Room 131—according to Parkson's instructions. I wasn't too sure what to expect when I walked in, but once I did, I was slightly put off by its mundane nature. It wasn't too bad though, and really, what could you expect from some Midgardian schooling room? There were five rows of five desks with a machine similar to that of the secretary's at the front.

I was a bit early to my first class of the day—or 'period', as Parkson had called it, and it was only then that I realized I didn't know the usual modus operandi of Midgardian teaching, but I quickly brushed that off. If I was there, I might as well have educated the rascals, and the Asgardian method was surely superior—lectures and note-taking. That's how I was taught by Odin's tutors, anyway.

I also noticed a large piece of slate at the front—they looked like the strategical planning boards on Asgard, and I quickly deduced they were for writing. Given that my students were still trickling in, I didn't want to commence my first-ever class just yet, so I grabbed one of the white and flaky writing utensils and wrote my false name in an elegant script.

When I turned around, most of the seats were occupied. Although I had given speeches in the past to larger groups of people, this time, I felt slightly out of my element. As usual, though, that didn't show.

"Hello, everyone. I'm Mr. Samson, and I'll be your astronomy teacher for this school year. This is my first ever time teaching, so I'm very excited. This class' syllabus can be found in the science department," I said, in accordance with my packet from Ms. Donna. "We have a ton to cover, so we're going to be starting on our first unit, history of astronomy, right now—"

"Mr. Samson, I know you're new, but you're supposed to take attendance first; it's school policy," interrupted a red-headed girl in the first row. When I looked down at her past my nose, everyone else silent, she continued to stare back at me. The little brat flipped her hair, even.

Attendance—I vaguely remembered it being a head count, essentially—I'd already done mentally.

I cocked a sable eyebrow at her. "Interruption, is rude, my student, and everyone is here; I counted." The disrespectful red-head rolled her eyes, but I ignored her for the time being.

I walked back up to the front of the room, cleared my throat loudly, and began to speak again. I made sure everyone was listening. "As I was saying, I'm going to introduce you all to the history of astronomy. I believe the class schoolbooks have a section dedicated to it. Now, if you'd all..."

LINE BREAK

Just as I was about to answer a student's—I should try to memorize their names, as other teachers do, apparently—an obnoxious sound vibrated throughout the room, and presumably, throughout the rest of the school.

All my students began to get up and leave, not paying attention to me any longer. That sound must've been their dismissal. I didn't bar them from leaving this time—I'd talk to them about leaving without my permission next can—but I did have a bone to pick with a certain red-head that was about to leave.

I walked up to the Midgardian female, saying, "We need to talk about your behavior toward me earlier."

"Excuse me?" she asked back at me, her tone dripping with teenage sass and insubordination.

"As your teacher, you ought to show me respect and deference. Your interruption and subsequent eye-roll are neither respectful nor deferential. You're staying with me after school tomorrow for an hour"—at this, her face and neck began to turn red with her blood—"and then you can leave. Have a nice day," I finished then sauntered back to my desk, not looking at her once.

I ignored her stomping, but before she reached the door, she turned back around. "You know, Mr. Samson, you can at least call me by my name, Natasha." I paid her no attention.

"Ugh, unbelievable," she muttered under her breath, not knowing my superior aural capabilities made me privy to every sound, loud or quiet. I smirked as she walked out.

That particular student was unbelievable. In retrospect, it wasn't too good of an idea to give her detention with myself. She'd only annoy me. Mentally groaning, I cursed my mistake. Jotunheim's gelid planes would be less grating.

I didn't have another class until the very end of the day, but by law, I was required to stay at school. I suspected it would get boring, but that meant I only had an abundance of time to think, plan, and grade.

Apparently, the students didn't like teachers who assigned homework on the first day. I didn't care, and besides, it was relatively easy. I gave them paper texts, from which they were to write a one-page, hand-written summary. And more than that, it pertained to a topic only the most moronic of idiots wouldn't already be aware of—this solar system's sun.

Sighing, I looked over the document Ms. Donna handed to me. From it, I gathered that the first month would be relatively rudimentary—the history of astronomy, the sun, etc. The science department's room number was listed there. I figured I might as well talk to the other teachers. There was nothing to entertain myself with at my desk. Perhaps I'd have conjure a book from Asgard to sate my boredom. Not here, of course.

* * *

The science department had food, at least. When I walked in, there was no one there, save one other person—a somewhat young teacher with tan slacks and a beard. When he saw me, he stood up and grinned.

"So you must be Joel—or Mr. Samson, whichever one you prefer," the man said. "I'm Josh Trines, but you can call me Josh."

"I don't care what you call me, but 'Joel' is fine," I responded, "and it's nice to meet you."

"So you're new here, huh?" Josh inquired.

"Indeed, I am. How long've you been teaching, Josh?"

"I only started last year." I nodded and took a seat at the triangular table. "Say, are you thirsty? There's a vending machine behind the back corner."

I looked at the Midgardian in confusion. The packet never mentioned what a 'vending machine' was, but I suspected it'd look odd if I asked into it. That said, I'd probably need to know what one was eventually, and from then on, I decided I'd ask a human about their culture whenever I wasn't sure, regardless of how odd it was.

"Well, you see, I grew up in a rural, forlorn area, so I'm not exactly sure what a vending machine is..." I trailed off, intentionally rubbing my neck in faux embarrassment.

Josh looked at me incredulously. "Where the hell were you raised?" he asked in disbelief before he collected himself after my pointed look. "And, uh, a vending machine is just a thing from which you can get, uh, drinks and such," he answered.

"I hail from the west," I fibbed effortlessly. "And no, I'm not particularly hungry."

Josh nodded, and took my further silence as a hint. I sighed, ready for the day to be over with.

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this. I'm aware my chapters are very short, but if I write for too long, I get burnt out. Hopefully the speediness with which I update makes up for it—only five days between chapters is pretty good, right? Anyways, thanks! Also, yeah, I don't own any unoriginal content—Marvel does. Oh, and thanks for the review!


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